Firefly Beach (25 page)

The firefly swirled several times in random circles. Then it hovered a couple of feet from her face.

Beth stepped forward, trying to get a closer look, truly examining the beautiful creature of light. She remembered how the firefly had frightened, yet amazed, her when she’d first encountered it.

The firefly circled Beth’s head and then swirled energetically from one end of the room to the other.

“I’m glad you’re feeling so lively and cheerful now because you didn’t look so good at the bottom of the hill this afternoon.” Beth laughed awkwardly.

She stared at the light creature for several minutes. Was this, indeed, the spirit of Katherine Thompson? She was reluctant to accept the idea, because she never believed in God or an afterlife, least of all ghosts. But her other explanations – a muse or an angel – seemed equally as unfathomable. In the course of less than a month, things happened which would forever change how Beth viewed life. It was inevitable. And she could not turn back the clock.

Suddenly, she experienced an unusual feeling of warmth and peace. It was a spiritual peace. She no longer felt melancholy and alone. She no longer believed that her father and mother were irrevocably erased from existence. She somehow sensed their presence, and she found that comforting.

Addressing the firefly, she said, “I wish I could ask you what you did that day.”

The firefly made a slow circle.

“Did you see your father?”

The firefly backed up toward the window.

“I don’t know this language, Katherine,” she said, sighing. “I have to go to bed. I’m exhausted, and I’ve done all I can do for now. We’ll get things straightened out…somehow.”

The firefly drifted back slowly and slipped quietly through the windowpane.

Beth yawned and went straight to bed. She slept peacefully through the night. The haunting nightmares had ceased.

Chapter 23

Denial

Beth slept until 9:35 the following morning. She had to shake her head and rub her eyes to remember where she was. The previous forty-eight hours felt more like weeks as she went over the days’ events in her mind.

She dressed, called Mary, and asked if she could come and speak to her, Lou, and Abigail.

“Of course, dear,” Mary responded. “We’re just putting on tea. We’ll wait for you.”

When the four of them were sitting comfortably on the patio with tea and cookies, Beth clarified the purpose of her visit.

“I have some unsettling news.”

Mary, Lou, and Abigail exchanged looks of concern.

“What is it, Beth?” Abigail asked.

“There was a car crash—”

“Oh my stars! Who? Where?” Mary cried out.

“No, no. I’m sorry, Mary,” Beth interjected. “I think it was Katherine, a long time ago. The police are excavating and running tests.”

“Oh, dear. You gave me a terrible fright,” Mary said, noticeably relieved.

Abigail tapped her finger against her mug. “The poor girl,” she said at last.

“How long ago?” Lou asked. “Do you have an idea?”

Beth chose her words carefully. She did not wish to reveal too much. “Yes, I believe so. She disappeared in 1977.” They looked at her dumbfounded. “I’ve talked with a lot of people over the past couple of days. I found her friend Sarah and her old employer in Bangor—”

Lou interrupted. “Where was the crash?”

“On highway 46.”

“Huh?”

“By Dedham—”

“What in heaven’s name was she doing out there?” Mary asked.

“Taking a drive, I suppose,” Beth replied.

The room quieted for a moment. Abigail looked far off in the distance as if tapping into old memories. Then she turned to Beth. “Does Rod know?”

“No. But the police have his name and number. They will probably contact him soon.”

“I have to go over there,” Abigail said, standing up. “He can’t find out this way.”

“Oh, Mother, sit down. The old fart is not going to welcome you into his home with the news that his daughter might be dead.”

“How would
you
like to find out?” Abigail snapped.

Beth looked back and forth between Abigail and Mary. She thought the older woman was right. Even if he was unpleasant and rude, Rod should not have to hear it from a stranger. Abigail was doing the proper thing.

“Go then.” Mary waved her hand at her mother impatiently.

Abigail turned to Beth. “Beth, how did you learn about all of this?”

Beth pursed her lips. “I found the crash site.”

Mary raised her eyebrows. “Really? How?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

Beth knew that whatever she said to Mary would be on the lips of everyone in town before the sun set. “I just had a weird intuition. There was this place on the road, and I decided to investigate.” She thought it best to leave Kenny out of it. He liked his privacy and stories about Kenny and Beth in the woods were bound to spread like wildfire. “I don’t know, Mary. It just happened.”

“Looks like we have a psychic in our midst,” Mary said with a look of delicious anticipation. “Perhaps the police can enlist you to solve other old crimes or disappearances.”

Beth rolled her eyes. “I’ve had quite enough with this one, thank you very much.”

Abigail turned to leave. “I’m going to visit Rod.”

Beth also stood up. “I really must be going as well. I am very tired. The last couple of days have been crazy.”

Mary followed them to the door.

Beth went home, grabbed a large picnic blanket, and headed for the beach. There she spent the afternoon. Off and on she cried and slept. She did not realize how many tears she had accumulated over the years. But she did not hold them back. She found that letting them flow allowed her to heal. She wished she had discovered that insight ages ago.

* * * *

When Abigail arrived, Rod’s house was dark and the curtains were closed, but his car was parked out front. She knocked firmly on the door, waited several minutes, and knocked again. “I know you’re in there, Rod. It’s Abigail. Please answer. It’s very important.” Abigail spent the following ten minutes knocking and shouting until Rod finally opened the door – abruptly and with anger.

“What do you want, woman?”

Abigail took a deep breath. “May I come in?”

“No!”

“Rod, it’s important. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”

“If it’s important, why don’t you get on with it?”

“I’d really like to come in,” she coaxed.

“The answer is
no
. Now be out with it and leave me in peace.”

Abigail sighed. “I just thought you should hear it from me.”

“What?” he shouted.

“The remains of a car crash have been found…an old crash.”

“So?”

“The driver did not survive. It uh—”

“Why would I care?”

“It may have been Katherine.”

“She didn’t have a car,” he responded dryly.

Abigail glanced away awkwardly. “The police are going to run tests. They may come by to talk with you.”

“Let ‘em come, then.”

“Do you understand what I am saying?” she asked. Rod’s mannerisms and expression seemed as tight and unfeeling as they had been the moment he opened the door.

“Yes, you are interrupting me with a bunch of harebrained ideas and theories that have nothing to do with me, my daughter, or my life,” he shouted as he slammed the door.

Abigail stood on the porch for several minutes in stunned silence. Then she returned to her car and drove away.

* * * *

Several hours later, the young, redheaded detective arrived at Rod Thompson’s house. This time Rod answered more promptly, but he held the door only six inches open, and he peered out suspiciously.

“May I help you?”

The detective showed his badge. “I’m Detective Douglas with the Hancock County Sheriff’s Office. May I come in?”

Rod pursed his lips, trying to hide his disdain. He knew that being uncooperative with the police was not going to help him maintain his privacy in the long run. Reluctantly, he opened the door.

The inside of the Thompson house was dreary. The perpetually closed curtains were thick and dark brown from the inside. Several small lamps with low wattage bulbs glowed throughout the living room – one on each side of the couch and one on the top of a large bookshelf covered with dust, magazines, and books in a chaotic arrangement.

Rod led Detective Douglas through the living room and into the kitchen. Several days’ worth of dirty dishes, empty soup cans, and the remnants of microwavable dinners littered the counters. The detective sat down at the kitchen table, discreetly moving a stack of newspapers aside. He pulled out his notebook and pen, and he motioned for Rod to sit across from him. Rod remained standing.

“I’m afraid I have some disturbing news,” he began. The detective was nervous. He had never before visited a home burdened with the information he carried that day.

Rod stood above him, tapping his foot subtly.

“Please sit down, Mr. Thompson.”

“I’d rather not,” Rod growled. Nevertheless, he pulled out a chair and slowly sat down across from Detective Douglas.

The detective took a deep breath and exhaled. “We have identified the body of your daughter, Katherine, as the victim of a fatal car crash. We believe the crash occurred thirty-five years ago.”

“It’s not my daughter.”

“Oh…ah…you do not have a daughter named Katherine?”

Rod sighed in irritation. “I
do
have a daughter named Katherine, but she did
not
die in a car wreck.”

Confused, the detective looked at his notes. “Do you know where your daughter is?”

“No,” Rod responded, quiet and bitter.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“She doesn’t have a car.”

“Sir. I beg your pardon, but when was the last time you saw your daughter?”

Silence.

“Sir?”

“October thirteenth, 1975.”

Detective Douglas inhaled slowly. “Sir, we believe the crash happened in November of ‘seventy-seven. If you have not seen your daughter since—”

“She did
not have
a car!”

“We recovered a license plate at the scene registered to a Katherine M. Thompson.”

“It wasn’t my Katherine.”

“Sir,” Detective Douglas said as gently as possible. “A lot can change in two years.”

Rod stood up abruptly pushing the table and knocking over his chair. “Are we through?”

The detective ran his hand through his hair, bewildered. He did not know how to handle the situation and he wished his partner had joined him. He stood up, cleared his throat, and said, “Mr. Thompson, I will need to know where you were on November thirteenth of 1977.”

Rod looked at the detective with an air of outraged defiance.

The detective folded his arms.

Rod left the room and moved toward the back of the house.

The detective grabbed his cell phone. “We can go to the station if you would prefer,” he said, as he dialed the number to request backup.

Rod returned carrying a tattered, leather notebook. He threw it on the table.

Detective Douglas picked it up.
1976 through 1981
was scrawled on the inside cover. The detective leafed through the book. A series of neatly printed but crowded log entries filled its pages. He read the first few entries.

December 3rd, 1976

Purchased on 12/2/76 from John Witherspoon in Miami. Needs paint and minor repairs. Renaming to “The Bottomless Blue.”

December 6th, 1976

Laid out a course for the channel marker at Port Everglades. Ended up two miles off course. Forgot to take currents into account. Had to motor-sail last two miles.

December 7th, 1976

Two-foot waves today and winds from the northeast. Was able to sail downwind for three hours offshore between Fort Lauderdale and Miami.

The detective flipped through the pages. There he found detailed accounts of sailing conditions, nautical miles traveled, and ports visited. He searched until he found the specific date in question.

November 13th, 1977

Twelve miles east of Long Key at 16:03. Plan to anchor just outside of Layton before dark. Weather fair. Sunny with mild winds from the north.

He looked up at Rod and closed the book. “May I take this back to headquarters to make copies?”

“Sure,” Rod grumbled. “Will you leave me alone now?”

“Yes, sir. I…ah…I’ll return this as soon as I can.” He almost said “Sorry for your loss,” but he realized that would elicit a whole new wave of outbursts and denials. He reached into his pocket and felt the item he had intended to give Mr. Thompson, but he decided it was best to leave it alone and move on. The man was not ready for any form of acceptance. “Thank you for your time.”

Rod said nothing. He marched across the room, opened the door, and motioned for the detective to leave.

On his way out of town, Detective Douglas stopped at Beth LaMonte’s home.

* * * *

Beth returned from the beach a little after 3:00 p.m. Her eyes were a tad red, so she washed her face thoroughly in cold water. She was just about to make a snack when the doorbell rang.

“Yes? Oh, hello detective,” Beth said warmly.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am.”

“No problem. What can I do for you?”

The detective reached into his pocket. “I have Katherine’s personal effects,” he said, trying to sound professional. “Rod Thompson doesn’t want to accept his daughter’s death. I couldn’t bring myself to leave this with him.” He handed Beth a small key hanging from a sterling silver necklace. “You were her friend. I thought you should have it.”

“Oh…I was not really her friend, exactly. I didn’t know her. She died when I was a child, living in Minnesota.”

“Ma’am, I would like to give this to someone,” he replied, continuing to hold out the key. “The old man is just not ready.”

Beth nodded, and she allowed him to drop the necklace into her hand. “So you know for certain now that it is Katherine?”